


Conjunction

by idyll



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-27
Updated: 2005-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tara's not what Spike wants, Spike's not what Tara needs, but maybe they're both wrong. Set the Summer after The Gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conjunction

It's the middle of the night, and at Revello Drive Willow is tucked away in bed, sleeping a fitful sleep full of obligations and responsibilities she doesn't think she's prepared for. Dawn's sleep is almost coma-like in its emptiness, in the lack of movement and rest it gives her. And Tara, she slipped out of the house an hour ago and is now wandering through Sunnydale Arms.

She slithers in and out of the shadows, her presence hidden by a complex spell her mother taught her when she was young. They used it to sneak off for a day in town every once in a while. To have fun and watch the people without Tara's father hearing of them being out in public.

She knows her mother would be horrified about her using the spell to watch demons wreak havoc and take lives. But it's necessary in a way she can't explain. It's the path to the answer to a question she doesn't even know yet. The reason she doesn't know the question is that there are so many it could be. Her life seems to have tilted on its axis and shows no sign of righting itself anytime soon. She's not even sure what caused the tilt in the first place. She just knows that nothing seems right inside of her anymore.

She's been doing this for three weeks, though, and she doesn't feel like she's closer to understanding anything. Except maybe the various ways in which vampires lure unsuspecting humans to cemeteries, that is. The male vampire walking with the young pretty teenaged boy, for example, used sex. The boy is a hustler, even Tara in her naivety can tell. It was business to the boy. Business that is going to get him killed in just a moment. The vampire pushes the boy against a tree, lowers his head to the boy's neck.

Tara creeps closer, watching with an unhealthy fascination as the boy realizes something is wrong. Realizes it, but doesn't try to stop it. That causes her to frown, move even closer and wonder what's going through his mind as that garbled face nearer and nearer to his jugular. She looks into his eyes, studies the emotions in that gaze, and something grips her when he almost unnoticeably thrusts his neck forward.

But death is cheated that night by one of its own lackeys, who steps from another shadow in a cloud of smoke and a swirl of leather, and casually plunges a stake into the vampire's heart. Tara makes a choking noise as Spike arches a brow at the boy and tells him to run on home. The boy does, an angry and resentful glare on his face, and Tara knows as surely as Spike must that this is just a temporary denial of what the boy is seeking.

Spike snarls after him, then turns to walk away. But he freezes suddenly, his nostrils flaring as he tosses his cigarette away and scans the shadows intently. Tara almost runs when his eyes come to rest on the patch of lightlessness she's in, but reminds herself there's no way he can actually see her there. She reminds herself of this again when Spike starts walking towards her, but doesn't really believe it at this point. A few feet away, he comes to a stop and cocks his head to the side.

"It's good," he drawls. "Can't see or hear you. Forgot one thing, though: can still smell you, pet."

A horrified expression crosses her face. She didn't know that.

"Come on out, then," he says tiredly.

Frustrated, but well aware of how stubborn Spike can be, Tara lets out a breath and murmurs the incantation to break the spell. Spike blinks a little owlishly when she just appears in front of him. "Guess I beat you to the stake," he comments, his eyes cutting in the direction of the dusted vamp. "Your bird know you're patrolling alone like this?"

It's not surprising that Spike thinks Tara's out patrolling. Since Buffy died, Tara's been doing rounds along with everyone else, and there's no other reason why she should be there. But the question about Willow does surprise her, so she arches a brow, which draws a rueful laugh from him that stops almost as soon as it's begun.

"Right," he sighs. "She hasn't a clue."

And Tara would like to keep it that way. Willow barreled past overprotective a while ago, probably when she found Tara sitting on that bench, broken in more ways than one. It's gotten hard to breathe at Revello lately, and sometimes she wishes that she hadn't agreed to move in there with Willow. But Dawn needs so much, and Tara isn't about to deny the teenager what little she has to offer.

"Don't...don't tell her," she pleads. Spike rubs his face, a weary gesture, and stares at her. "Please," she adds and she knows there's a note of desperation in her tone. A note that doesn't exactly fit in with her simply wanting to get some space from a lover who is so terrified of what else might happen to Tara that Tara can't get a moment alone.

Spike's eyes narrow on her. He skims his eyes from her face all the way down to her waist, where there isn't a stake tucked at the waistband of her jeans. To her hands, which are empty. To her ankles, where there is no telltale bulge like there is when the denim sits over a concealed weapon.

The anger starts building in his eyes as he's studying her. Seeing past everything she shows to the things that she keeps to herself. Things that he is the last one she wants to see because of the ice that has slithered into his gaze.

"Her death means nothing to you," he grinds out harshly.

Tara closes her eyes briefly. "That's not true," she whispers.

"Yes, it is," he counters, and she hears his muffled steps across the soft green grass. When she opens her eyes, he's only a few inches from her. "You're just wandering around watching people get killed, and that's what she spent her bloody life stopping."

He's furious. So furious and hurt, and she hates that she's causing it. "You don't understand," she murmurs.

His lips twist cruelly, and he leans forward. "Guess again, luv," he says silkily, that thread of rage just hovering below the surface. "Before, it was Willow in it, and you standing with her. This is the first time you've been in the mix. Out there every night with the darkness and death, and you want to *understand* it."

Maybe he's not as good as Tara thought. "You don't understand," she says again, still softly but with a certainty that has him pulling back from her.

"Then why don't you explain it," Spike snaps. "Tell me why you were going to stand there and watch that little bastard get what he courted?"

Her eyes widen, and Spike clenches his jaw and looks away. "You weren't saving him," she realizes.

Spike's body jerks and snaps with the struggle to contain his emotions. "How dare he," he finally chokes out. "He's nothing. He doesn't deserve to get what he wants. Not when she--"

There are so many ways Tara could reply to that, but she doubts he'll appreciate any of them. She watches him regain control of himself, reign almost everything in until he's no longer about to explode.

"Explain," he says tightly. "And make it good, because I'm not above paying some worthless rube to give you a taste of what you're so interested in seeing."

It's not an idle threat and she shivers. "She was...she was in my head," Tara tells him, her voice small. "So much blood and pain, so many twisted desires. And they were mine while she was there. I wanted them along with her."

She looks at him to gauge his reaction, but he's not giving her one. Even the anger has been curtained by inscrutability as he listens to her. She runs her hands through her hair. "I don't know why I've been coming out here like this," she admits with frustration. "I don't know much of anything lately, except that I need. "

That gets his attention. "What do you need?"

She shakes her head, dissatisfaction bubbling up to the surface. "Everything. Nothing."

His face goes a little slack with something she thinks might be awed shock, and it frightens her. Because it means he's figured it out, and she's not sure she actually wants to know. Not sure she wants to hear what it is she's been looking for.

"I should get home," Tara says quickly, turning away.

But Spike takes hold of her arm and pulls her back around, hauling her in close to him. He stares down at her with an intensity that causes her knees to get a little unsteady, that makes her want to close her eyes to escape.

His hand comes up and he traces the contours of her face, and it takes effort to stay still. "I'm not what you want," she reminds him, trying to get away from his grasp.

"And I'm not what you need," he says absently, his eyes following the path of his fingers as they drift from her face to her neck. "But I think we're both wrong."

Her nerve endings are exploding at that small touch on her sensitive neck. "Spike," she breathes. "I have to get home."

He sucks in a breath--a peculiar habit she has yet to see another vampire retain--and his grip tightens almost reflexively around her arm. "Say that again," he orders her softly.

She doesn't know what he wants her to repeat, and she's too distracted by the fingers making their way from one side of her neck to the other to even figure it out.

"My name. Say it again, all soft and needy."

Tara's knees give out then, because she's suddenly aware of the scene. Of Spike standing so close to her that her breasts are brushing against his duster with every inhalation of air she takes. Of the tightness in her abdomen. Of the tingling at the palm of her hands. Of the shudders his fingers are bringing to her. Of the look in those blue eyes of his that has plowed down past her confusion and uncertainty to the truth she wasn't even aware of.

An arm at the small of her back keeps her upright, and he lowers his head. "Say it again," he urges silkily.

"Spike."

Spike jerks her against him, and she can feel him pressed against her tightened abdomen. Tara's arms creep around him, under the duster, and her palms slide up and down his back, feeling the play of muscles through his thin t-shirt. She takes a deep breath and holds it, and he moves side to side, just the slightest amount, giving her breasts a friction that just makes her want more.

Tara's palms are throbbing, and she fumbles impatiently at the waistband of his jeans, pulling the material of his shirt out and then dragging her hands against flesh, trying to sate their need for contact. His hand goes to the neckline of her shirt, touching her just above it, and the breath that she's taken leaves her lungs in a gasp. But he doesn't go lower, and she scrapes her nails against his skin in frustration.

That's the moment when they truly become lost to reason. Because Spike's hand tangles in Tara's hair, tilting her head back and to the side, and then his mouth is on hers.

She remembers a kiss like this. Once, from a long, faraway memory. Christy Wilson. Tenth grade. She was the most popular girl in school and she taunted Tara constantly. But one day when Tara was in the restroom washing her hands, Christy walked in. And there hadn't been any taunts, just a surprising desire in Christy's eyes when she strode purposefully to Tara and kissed Tara like it was a necessity long denied.

The bell rang and they didn't care. In the cramped confines of a stall they kissed and moaned and touched. They touched, and Christy knew just what to do, just how to crook her fingers deep inside of Tara to make Tara have to bite her lip to keep from screaming. But Tara returned the favor, uncaring of it being a bathroom floor she knelt on, using her tongue and driving Christy over the edge.

Spike is kissing Tara like Christy did and Tara's kissing him back the same way. And even though Tara never even thought about doing so, right then it feels like she's been wanting this, has been dreaming of it, for a while now.

***

Spike doesn't think he can get enough of Tara. Has barely had a taste and knows even all of her won't be enough. She has no idea what it is she's been looking for out in the darkness of this Hellmouth town. No idea. But he does, and he gets it.

Her mouth tastes the way some kinds of eastern incense smells: mysterious and soft; young and wise. And she's kissing him with a passion he's never seen any evidence of, with a burning ache that it's been too long since he experienced. He doesn't want to stop, but he refuses to do it hard and fast in the cemetery. Tara gasps when he pulls back, her eyes languid and fiery at the same time as they peer up at him, practically begging him for what she can't get anywhere else because no one else could or would understand.

"Come on, luv," Spike whispers, tugging Tara's hand and leading her through the cemetery.

Tara clings to his hand, and he clings right back. Squeezes it in a grip that he knows from experience is just this side of painful.

He's hardly seen Tara since...since. Hardly seen any of them, except if it's for patrols. Being around them reminds him too bloody much of who isn't there. About the only one he sees often is Dawn, and that's usually late at night when she sneaks out into the backyard and they go walking. With that damn 'Bot around, he avoids going into the house as much as possible.

Spike's life has become hollow. It's been that way before, but he doubts he'll come out of it the way he used to. There's a chance, though. And that chance is stepping in front of him, walking backwards as he walks forward, so that Tara can drag the neck of his t-shirt down and nip at his neck, those full lips drawn back from her teeth, those big eyes flailing around for something, anything to grab her interest.

There's nothing left to ground him here anymore. It used to be Dru and then it was Buffy. But Buffy's...she's not here anymore. She's gone. Shattered on the pavement like a small bird that fell from a nest. And it's enough to make him want to walk into the sun, remembering his strong, undefeatable Slayer broken to bits like something fragile.

Spike jerks to a stop and yanks Tara close, tasting that innocence and wisdom in her mouth again, digging deeper to the darkness that's braided through it. The uncertain darkness left behind by the creature that was responsible for Buffy's death. Slides his tongue along hers and sweeps it up, lets it coat the inside of his mouth and it's more but it's not enough.

Could Spike taste it on Tara's skin, too? He brings his mouth to her neck and it's there. Tasting more of it is almost as good as the way she arches back suddenly in surprised pleasure, and Spike sets his hands on her hips and brings her closer. Her leg lifts up and it's his turn to arch. She shivers when he growls lowly against the skin of her neck, and gasps in delight when he takes hold of her waist and lifts her. Her legs wrap naturally around him and he walks, his face tilted at her neck so that he can see where he's going. It's awkward walking this way, and with her writhing on him he's not paying nearly enough attention to their surroundings.

He doesn't give a bloody damn.

There's been something he's been looking for, too. For as long as Tara has. Not the same thing, but...there's overlap, isn't there? Enough to maybe keep both of them from self-destructing. Of course, as is generally par for the course in Spike's life, it could go the other way. They could get found out, in which case he wouldn't have to take a walk in the sun because Willow would probably kill him horribly. Best not to think about that now. Or ever. Will is more than a little frightening of late, especially where Tara is concerned.

But Spike doesn't think he's ever tasted anything so damn good, not even that brief kiss he had with Buffy when he thought she was the 'Bot. Tara is something unto herself and he needs everything she can give him, anything he can take. Now. The urgency is in her, too, when he sets her on her feet, and they almost run the rest of the short distance to his crypt.

The small lamp in the crypt is on because he forgot to turn it off, and he urges Tara to the center of the room and then takes a step back to look at her. The peasant style blouse she has on does nothing and everything for her breasts. Clings to their roundness in a way that's a little unflattering overall to her figure, but is more than flattering to their delicious weight. And she's breathing heavily, deeply, sending them rising and falling in a way that almost has him hypnotized.

It takes effort to drag his gaze away, but he does. Brings it to her face and his mouth parts just the slightest bit when he sees the open and raw need. He can't remember the last time he saw a look like that directed at him. It sends the reason he's doing this out of his mind entirely, and since Tara doesn't yet know her reasons, it's like there aren't any.

No reasons, no agendas. Just them.

It's probably the clearest moment he's had since that night at the tower, and it sends him moving towards Tara quickly, because he doesn't want it to slip away. Doesn't want reality to come crashing down around him yet again. He backs her against the edge of the sarcophagus and stares down at her.

He remembers her eyes from before, when they were on that road trip in that monstrosity. Remembers seeing the crazed darkness in the front of Tara's normally serene gaze. It should be gone, just like Glory. Just like Buffy. But it's not. It's a little something that's unhinged. A little something that's...Glory.

Tara's staring up at Spike like no one else in the world exists. Like they're the last two people on earth and all they have is each other. And she doesn't close her eyes when he kisses her, he knows. She keeps them open while her hands run along the length of his chest and arms and back. And he guides her with his hands on her hips, takes her to the ladder that leads downstairs. Even when she's climbing down the rungs, she finds a way to keep touching him. To always have a hand on him. Like she's afraid to be disconnected from him.

There's only a mattress downstairs. He hasn't gotten box springs or a bed frame yet. Probably won't, since the fantasy that spawned him getting it soared from the sky like something magnificent.

Just the mattress, covered in black cotton sheets, and he thinks that Tara will look lovely against them. A luscious contrasting softness. She'll lie there like a shy, winsome creature. She'll be welcoming and open, and he'll sink into her and lose himself, but she'll bring him back with whispered murmurs and wandering lips.

Spike nudges Tara to the mattress and tips her back, watches her soar the short distance while darkness hides in the depths of her eyes.

***

And after Christy and Tara were done in the bathroom stall, Christy smiled at Tara with a hundred different emotions, all of them wonderful and sweet, and Tara knew that things were unchanged. But that didn't matter. She had a part of Christy, and Christy had a part of her. They were connected in a way that the outsider that was Tara, and the popular girl who had to be "on" all the time that was Christy, weren't connected to anyone else.

***

Death has ties.

Spike has always known this and has always thought it was funny that Angel didn't realize it until he got a soul. Taking a life. Ending an existence. There is no greater intimacy than that. Not sex, not sharing blood, not physical violence.

The faces don't matter, the names matter even less, and the when and where don't matter at all. All that matters, in fact, is that whoever snips the thread of life from the loom experiences a moment with that person that no one else ever can.

If only for an instant, you are both the killer and the killed, and then there is only the killer left. There is only the killer who remembers the moment.

***

Tara doesn't think any of it is strange. Not the sex with soulless male vampire. Not her lack of inhibitions. Not the ease with which she slips from the bed and wanders the room naked as the day she was born to find her clothing.

This was...necessary. She was bound to Glory in so many ways, unsure of who was who, and then she was abruptly alone again. The connections from before Glory felt hollow, flat. Like the color had seeped from them and left them pale and faded. Even when she was staring into Willow's eyes while they touched and writhed and muffled their screams, it didn't feel like it once had.

***

When Tara leaves Spike waits a little while then gets dressed and strides out into the night. He finds the punk hustler boy from earlier, still trying to make a few bucks, and Spike tosses some of what he has and nods at the kid to follow him.

In an alley next to Willie's, Spike brushes the kid aside when he reaches for Spike's belt and simultaneously bares his neck. It doesn't take long before a pair of rendezvousing vamps come wandering in, their nostrils flaring at the scent of food.

Spike waits until the kid has his moment. The most intimate of moments when he realizes that the body leaning into him, the fangs buried in his neck, are going to be his last. Truly his last.

And only the kid is surprised when that moment jumpstarts everything else in him and he begins to struggle. The stake is out and then back in the folds of Spike's duster within seconds.

"Run on home," he tells the kid.

And the kid does, his eyes flashing gratefully.

***

Tara goes into the bedroom after her shower and she stares at Willow's sleeping form. At the pensive frown, the night-darkened red hair spilling across the white pillow case and the milky skin that comes to life with a burst of pinkish hues. She stares at the arm flung out in sleep, whose hand has caressed Tara's face like Tara was the most precious thing in existence. At the lips that have said those exact words.

She is Willow's. Willow is hers. They fit and they belong and Tara feels it for the first time in longer than she cares to admit.

***

When Spike thinks about it, it makes sense.

Glory killed Buffy as surely as if she'd pushed the Slayer from the tower with her own two hands. And for the time when his world was reduce to Tara--her mouth on his, her hands clasped in his, her body under his, her legs around his waist, her sounds in his ears and her eyes locked with his--right then, he touched the moment. The moment when Tara was Glory. The moment when Buffy died. He touched it and it's his now, too.

***

Tara curls up against Willow's warmth, drawing her lover to her chest and brushing her hand across the red fall of her hair.

She feels the muted thump of Willow's heart beating out of synch with hers, filling the dead silences with life, and it resounds and vibrates, and Tara falls asleep.

.End


End file.
